Gzzt

My brain feels fried. Too many things going on at once at work and home and my body and brain. There are times when wine and a hot bath sound so appealing yet are forbidden. Sigh.

I realize this is more like a "tweet" and sucks as a nablopomo post, especially as my last one. Well boo hoo. I wrote something at least, so there.

Baby

Yes. I'm barely pregnant and I'm comparing it to my first and other people's experiences. I'm more tired this time and feel things going on in my not-there-yet baby bump. It's like I can feel my placenta forming or whatever is going on in there. It's weird.

So far, knock on wood, no morning sickness or cravings or strong emotions or anything. Except my right eye twitches but that can be non-pregnancy related.

I sometimes forget I'm pregnant. It's like reality hasn't kicked in that I'm having a second child. A second child! Second pregnancy and labor and sleepless nights. Second diapering, breast feeding, fear of SIDS. Second colds and colic and ear infections. Second laughs and second first words.
A second child. Weird. It doesn't seem real.

Cats the Musical

My mother in law loves musicals, me not so much. Sure I was an extra nun in The Sound of Music, the too-early for marriage pick for Sprintze in Fiddler on the Roof. But being in a musical is night and day different than watching one.

Everyone told me when I was young to watch Cats. I loved Cats and art and music, I means, it's the perfect thing! But I hadn't any interest.

My mother in law was watching it one day, and so I decided to pay attention to it so I'd be worldly or cultured or something.

Tra la la, music jingled and cat-people danced and my mother in law was enamored. Until I began to giggle uncontrollably.

Why? Well, if there are supposed to be cats, where is their stinky litter? Why aren't they sitting on books and homework the owner is working on? Why doesn't the old cat hack up hairballs and lick his potty parts at inappropriate times?

I'd totally go to see that version of Cats.

The Man Who Changed the World

You know, I don’t even remember his name – and I’m okay with that.

Karen missed her dad. He went from stay at home dad to disappearing dad overnight, leaving her mom in tears at the coffee table. Karen was shuttled from friend to friend, caring for her while her mother worked two jobs in the evening. Her mom was too caught up in things to do much, so Karen would practice her cursive and then microwave some canned soup for dinner while her mom stared vacantly at the television. She missed her father terribly, and her mother was more absent than ever. If her mom spoke it was a mumble about "drug abuse", whatever that was, and to ask Karen for marriage advice. Like Karen had a clue! At only 8 years old, boys still had cooties! All she knew was she wanted her family back.

One Saturday, Karen's mom looked mournfully into her eyes, stroked her hair, and said dryly, "grab your sleeping bag. We're visiting your father". Karen leaped at the chance and sat impatiently in the car while her mom nonchalantly packed the car.

They drove in silence for what seemed like hours, deep into the night on a desolate road. While the road seemed lonely and her mother stoic, the mood could not quelch Karen's excitement.

After what seemed like forever, Karen's mom pulled the car to the shoulder. "What's wrong mommy? Where's daddy's house", inquired Karen. Her mother gave an exasperated sigh and snapped, "Here, your damned father lives here like some wild animal, out in the bushes". Karen was confused why daddy would live in the bushes, and was scared of the wild animal her mother spoke of. She opened the door, stepped out, and froze in fear. "Get going, follow my flashlight beam, don't stray, c'mon now" her mom squawked, grabbing her hand. They hiked up a steep hill, nearly slipping on the loose rocky soil, and came upon a plateau where Karen could see a campfire and some shadowy figures roaming around.

A tall silhouette approached her and she jumped, only to feel a warm calloused hand catch her fall, a familiar hand and smell and giggle-her father.

She jumped into his arms and didn't want to let go; she was carried to the campfire and her dad set her die on a log used as a seat. Karen saw her mom pitch the tent, crawl in, and turn off her flashlight, exhausted. Karen missed her once jovial mother, but she brushed away her sadness, basking in the love of her father.

Another dark figure approached and patted her head. "Do you like songs, darlin'? I know a song my daddy taught me, a song that goes back before time. It's in my people's tongue, Apache, but you are smart like your daddy, I bet. You will catch on, wanna try", he suggested, as he broke into a melody. The words were full of whispery sounds and strange utterances that seemed oddly soothing. Karen caught on quickly and began to sing the chorus.

She kept singing the song, as she watched the Milky Way cross the sky and could hear the crackle of the fire die down. The strange lyrics were comforting and addictive and she could not stop.

Next thing she knew, she could feel someone shaking her awake. "Karen, hurry up, we've got to get going, your mom has already packed us up sweetie" whispered her dad. "Daddy, you are coming home?" Karen inquired, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. "Yes", he confirmed, "I had this profound dream. I went to a heavenly place full of music and love and was told to go home. My family needed me. Everything would be okay. Your mother said she had a similar dream. Sure wish I could remember the tune, it was lovely. Now c'mon sleepy head, we've got a long drive." Karen grabbed her dad's hand and they began to walk to the rocky hill leading to the car. "Daddy, do you know the name of the man last night? He sang me a song, it goes like this..." Karen said, beginning to hum the melody and mumble the words. Her dad froze in his tracks and bent down in front of her, tears in his eyes. "Who taught you that song, sweetie? I know it. It was the song from heaven in my dream", he cried, stroking her hand. "Daddy, it was the other dark shadow by the fire. He was there all night and he taught me the song. I sang it all night while watching the stars. You were right there, daddy, he was in your campsite, silly daddy. I don't know his name but that's okay. I hope he finds his way home too" Karen giggled earnestly. Her dad's face had gone pale and he mumbled, "I, I don't understand, I...never mind. I guess some things aren't clear. But I'm going home with you. To be a happy family here on Earth, my strange little sweetheart." And with that, she climbed in the car and off they drove, Karen looking towards the plateau and waving until it vanished into the distance.

My little hobby

One of my hobbies is postcard collecting. My goal is to have one from every country, as well as each US state and Canadian Province. I also like I just plain collect them. They are like little snapshots into another place, with an excerpt from a stranger's life. As a blog writer, the glimpses seem poetic to me, fascinating.

I got my first postcard in fourth grade; to practice letter writing our teacher had us write a postcard to a classmate. My first postcard was pink with a tabby cat. Sadly I have lost that one but have one from 4th grade that I did not write on and kept for myself.

My relatives and one of my mom's friends found out my hobby and sent me cards when on vacation. Then my great Aunt Edna passed and she had a box of postcards that I fought my cousins for, tooth and nail. In the box was a metallic looking card of the cityscape of Russia. I love that card even now.

Then my mom's friend sent me a card from Chile, a Christmas postcard, but the man who sent it to my mom's friend had written it on a boat on his way to Antarctica. Isn't that awesome?

Within the last ten years, I have received among thousands of cards, one black and white card from 1969 of Kabul, Afghanistan, given to me by a news reporter. I also won some contest from a world traveller and got a very propaganda filled card from North Korea.

I'm moving so most of my cards are packed but you can see one from Mauritius and one from Belarus.

A bit over a year ago, I joined a website (for free!); postcrossing.com (sorry dunno how to link from my not so smart phone) and you send a card to a random user and receive one from a different random user. So I might send one to Stanislav of Moscow and get one from Aiko of Kyoto. It is pretty neat, I think. I love the element if surprise as to where I will send a card, and I try and choose one I think the recipient will enjoy. Then I eagerly visit the post office almost daily waiting for a mystery card in my box. Who will it be from? What will they write about? What will the image be of? What wonderment will it spark in my mind?

No wonder my blog is partially named, "wanderlust" for I have it!

Crafty card

I usually do "art" not "crafts", if there is a difference. However, I wanted to get crafty for my son's upcoming birthday.

On sprout tv (a PBS thing for small children) they have daily birthday announcements and you can send in a handmade card with Sprout TV characters and it just might, may e, possibly be awesome enough that thu show it on TV. I really hope they do...

Here's the outside; I still have to do the interior.

Which fork is it?

I have this gorgeous dress that cost$ $160 and I've been dying to wear it and won't be able to for about a year. I took up the rare opportunity of both fitting in the dress and having a babysitter, to go out on a date with my hubby.

We chose some fancy bistro type place, since I looked nice and stuff. The kind of place that is the scene in which to be seen, the place with foie gras confit foam Perdue or whatever. And while I am a foodie so gourmet food is quite enjoyable, the scene is not so enjoyable.

I grew up in a boiled dinner, eat in front of the tv in your sweat pants family. Going "out" to eat meant Jack in the Box. So I get a bit confused at these hoity toity places.

I don't know which forks to use. Of you want me to use different forks for different things, save me the embarrassment and bring me the salad fork with my salad, thank you.

I think linen napkins are pretty and do make great lap protectors, but what do I wipe my greasy hands onto? What if, because I'm a walking allergy, I need to wipe or blow my nose? I don't want to "excuse myself to powder my nose" a dozen times, I mean, that makes the other diners suspicious, like, is she selling drugs,? Does she have explosive diarrhea?

And then there are weird foods. Can you eat truffle pomme frites with your hands like you do with fast food fries? What do you do with an inedible chunk of fat? How do you remove an olive pit with class? (Apparently nibbling and sucking the olive, pinched between our fingers, and hiding the olive pit under your plate is NOT the way. Again, just bring me pitted olives, okay?)

And what do you do if you have a huge chunk of meat and bread in your teeth? Trying to discretely dislodge it with your fingernail is not the answer. Complaining to your hubby about it lacks class (but wins in distinction). Trying to ignore it when all you can think about is the entire animal between your molars doesn't work either.

Which is why, for me, taking me to some hole in the wall taco shop is a much better idea. I can use no forks if I choose, and I can pick my teeth, blowy nose, suck an olive pit, hide inedible a, and have a good meal.